


A Collection of Alternate Realities

by taptaf



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Bathroom Sex, F slur, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 00:44:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17213927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taptaf/pseuds/taptaf
Summary: A collection of (mostly McPriceley) alternate universe prompt fills from Tumblr.





	1. Boarding School - McPriceley

When Kevin is sixteen years old, a letter arrives in the mail. It is addressed to him in unremarkable script -  _Kevin Price, Provo, Utah_  – and handed to him over dinner.

“Well,” Mr Price says, tucking a napkin into the neck of his shirt. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Kevin is, of course, but for a while he just sits there and stares at it. This letter looks nothing like the one Tommy Coughlin got, before being sent to France.  _His_ was perfectly official with a purple waxed-seal; Kevin’s is perfectly ordinary, sealed with a small piece of tape.  

Disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach well before he’s slid a knife beneath the flap to tear it open. It is a feeling so familiar, he can always see it coming; so when an acceptance from  _Dreadfeather’s Academy for Troubled Boys_ falls out, there’s no surprise with how he feels.

“Well, then,” his father says, after taking a long drink of water. “That settles that.”

His mood is suspiciously affable; he even smiles when passing a dish across the table. Mrs Price made Kraft mac and cheese, Kevin’s favorite. He wonders if they knew this was coming.

* * *

 

_Troubled_. That’s what they stamp on the front of his file.

“It’s alright, dear,” Kevin is told, as he’s fitted for his uniform. It is gray and boring; and not at all like the uniform he used to dream about wearing, which was lined with a bright pop of color. “We’ll get you all straightened out.”

Kevin frowns, as he’s measured from his armpits to his waist. “I don’t need to be straightened out, ma’am.”

“Of course not, dear.” The lady smiles and pats the top of his head. It is the first time he’s ever felt pitied.  

* * *

 

He shares a room with nine other boys, who he instantly dislikes. They are loud and rude, and one of them – Neeley, as he’s called – chooses Kevin as his  _arch nemesis_ , the second he walks through the door.

“You’re the only jerk here bound to give me a run for my money with the girls,” he explains, as though there will ever be girls in this place. “You’re tall, dark and handsome, with perfect teeth. A real  _ladies man_.” Neeley looks over his shoulder, making a crude gesture with a fist towards a red-headed boy in the corner. “Just your type, isn’t he, McKinley?”

Two of the other boys, Zelder and Schrader, make gagging noises, while another one, Arnold, laughs so loudly it hurts Kevin’s ears. The boy in the corner, though, makes himself very small. He hugs his knees to his chest and rests his forehead on the top of them. Kevin watches as his shoulders start to shake.

“Well, if I am, he’s got good taste.” Kevin turns away from the boy and faces Neeley, again, who has at least three inches on him and a whole lot of weight. “Which is more than I can say about you.”

* * *

 

Dangerous. It’s how he describes the look in Neeley’s eyes when he rouses in the hospital wing a few hours later. 

McKinley is sitting on a chair beside his bed, reading  _Gray’s Anatomy_ while looking no worse for wear. “Don’t worry about Neeley,” he says, without looking up. “I took care of him for you.”

“Oh.” Kevin winces as he moves to sit up, resting his back against the headboard. Everything hurts, but nothing seems to be broken. “Thanks, but I could have handled it.”

“Yes, I can see that,” McKinley says, finally closing his book. “So, why are  _you_  here, anyway? You don’t look very troubled.”

_I’m not_ , Kevin wants to say; but finds himself momentarily speechless as McKinley lifts his gaze. His eyes are very blue. Kevin thinks they’re very nice, and unintentionally says so aloud.

“Thanks.” The other boy grins; “So are yours.”

Kevin quickly ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Thanks,” he says, fisting at the blankets. “They’re brown, though; nothing special.”

“They’re _honest_.” McKinley hooks a finger beneath Kevin’s chin, forcing him to look up; “And I happen to think that’s very nice.”

* * *

 

Over time, Kevin learns that Connor thinks a lot of things are very nice; things most people would think are not very nice at all – like the rotting, gnarled roots that peek up through the ground in the courtyard, or the damaged plaster and flaking paint in the library.

“They tell a story,” he explains, running a hand over a wall in the reference section. “Everything does, I guess; but I like stories that are hard to figure out.”

“My mom has a bunch of those _The_   _Cat Who_  mysteries,” Kevin says, idly picking at a chip of paint. “Like that?”  

“No,” Connor admits, dropping his hand. “Like you.”

It’s quiet in the library. Kevin hadn’t noticed until now. He can hear time pass by in clicks from Connor’s hand-me-down watch; and his nerves, which thrum loudly in his ears.    


“Oh, I’m not mysterious.” Kevin shakes his head and holds his hands up, as though he is surrendering to that fact; and perhaps, in some ways, he is. “I’m just like you. We’re the same, you and me.”

Connor smiles, but it looks a little bit sad. Like maybe he doesn’t believe him. Like maybe Kevin is  _lying_. But Kevin doesn’t lie; his eyes are honest, and his heart is good, and his mind has stopped warring with them both. So he takes Connor’s hands and ducks his head so they’re standing eye-to-eye. 

Kevin takes a steadying breath; “ _Exactly_ the same, alright?”

A minute passes, then a second and a third, before Connor gives his hands a squeeze, like maybe he finally gets it.

“Alright,” Connor says, then leans in to kiss him, which lets Kevin know that he does.


	2. Mafia - McPriceley

“You’re real bad at this, huh?” Kevin sighs, motioning for Connor to step closer; “Why did we even hire you?”

Connor shrugs, carding a hand through his hair as he stumbles across the room, accidentally knocking into the table that houses Kevin’s drink. It falls to the floor; another gin wasted. “Whoops,” he says, hardly caring at all.

Kevin rolls his eyes, stands and reaches for Connor’s wrist. “You’ll pay for that,” he murmurs, tugging the other boy close. Their noses touch and Connor laughs. His breath smells like vermouth.

“Not with money, I hope,” he purrs, trailing a finger down Kevin’s chest. “Considering I don’t have any.”

“You would if you were any good,” Kevin points out, allowing Connor to wrap a hand within his tie. “But you’re not.”

“No,” Connor agrees. “I’m not.”

He thinks he wanted to be once, when Kevin found him in a  _Barnes and Noble_  café, slinging drinks and looking bored; when Kevin offered him a life of luxury, in exchange for the occasional job. 

_Just little things_ , Kevin had said. _Dropping off a package here, a little spring cleaning there. You know, stuff like that._  

But it wasn’t stuff like that; it was extortion, and racketeering, and while there  _was_  cleaning up, it was not in a spring way - it was in a:  _we don’t want to get caught, so you better mop up the blood_ way.

It took all of five minutes for Connor to realize he was in way over his head, but Kevin had a gun and a big smile and  _really_  nice hair, so Connor stuck it out as best he could until he got stabbed. Lucky for him, people don’t usually die from a knife to the top of the foot. 

_How do you get stabbed in the foot_ , Kevin had laughed, pulling Connor onto his lap.  _Idiot_.   


With any luck, this incompetence will be enough to get him out of their deal, but for now he’s content to stay close to his boss - to  _Kevin_ , who wears three-piece suits and thousand-dollar shoes; who snorts pixie sticks, to get his friends off his back; who knows where to touch and kiss and lick, to drive him absolutely mad.

Kevin who was not at all made for this life.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Kevin says, pulling Connor from his reverie. “For getting you mixed up in all this.”

Connor snorts, slipping a hand down between them. Kevin is already hard. “Liar,” he says. “You’re not sorry at all.”

“No, I am.” Kevin grunts, rocking his hips into Connor’s palm. “I just wanted you here, with me, that’s all. There was probably a better way to do that, though, now that I think about it.”

Connor hums, walking Kevin back towards the couch, until the back of Kevin’s knees hit against it and he sits. “Oh yeah?” Connor settles himself in Kevin’s lap, splaying his hands over the other boy’s chest. “How?”

“I could have taken you to dinner,” Kevin says, voice thick. He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip as Connor reaches for his belt; “Bought you flowers, treated you real nice. Better than this,” he adds. “Like you deserve.”

Connor doesn’t doubt that. Kevin is nice and kind and empathetic. He prays and cries in secret. He writes in a journal, bleeding out his deepest secrets. 

“You still could,” Connor points out. “What’s stopping you?”

“You know what.” Kevin reaches for Connor’s hips; “It’s my –”

“Don’t,” Connor warns. “That is  _such_  a turn-off.”

“You asked.” Kevin arches a brow, looking rather smug for someone who was just about to talk about their dad, during sex.

“ _Rhetorically_.” Connor wants to shush Kevin, to cut him off with rough and hungry kisses, because it always hurts to hear this excuse. “You were worth being stabbed in the foot,” he says, instead, sliding off the couch and onto his knees. “Why aren’t I worth the same?”

Kevin swallows thickly, watching as Connor’s hands trail slowly up his thighs; “is  _that_  a rhetorical question?” 

“No,” Connor says. “It’s not.”


	3. Spies & Secret Agents - McPriceley

Kevin is overdressed in a suit and burgundy tie, earning him quite a few looks from someone referred to as  _that guy._

“He’s not all there,” the bartender says, circling a finger beside his temple. “Clearly.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Kevin muses, resting his chin against the palm of one hand. “He seems alright to me.”

Alright, but obviously drunk. The man spins slowly on his barstool, double fisting pink martinis while singing  _Bad Blood_  at the top of his lungs. It would almost be impressive - how this man can multitask like that, without losing his balance or his drinks - if it wasn’t so unbelievably stupid.

“See something you like?” The man catches Kevin staring, and lifts his drinks in reception. “’Because  _I_ certainly do.”

Kevin rolls his eyes. “I’m not one for lines,” he says, approaching the other man, anyway. “Tell me your name.”

“Well, since asked so nicely.” The man sets down one of his drinks, offering Kevin a hand. “Connor,” he says, leaning in rather close. “But play your cards right, and you can call me yours.”

Kevin sighs, pulling his hand back. “I told you I’m not into lines.”

“Suit yourself.” Connor spins back towards the bar, picking up his second drink. “But for the record, that wasn’t a line. It was the truth. Or, it  _was_ , until you were rude and ruined your chances.”

“I’ll try to get over it.” Kevin waves the bartender over, ordering himself another gin and tonic. “So, what exactly do you do, Connor? Besides  _this_.” He motions towards the empty glasses scattered about the bar top, and at Connor’s too-small, too-tight shirt.

“I suppose you could say I’m an entrepreneur.” He throws back what’s left of his drinks, before turning his attention back to Kevin. “You know, a  _businessman_.” Connor hooks a finger beneath Kevin’s chin, drawing him closer. “I sell things.”

Kevin swallows thickly, eyes slipping shut as Connor leans in, nosing along his jaw; “What, um, what kind of things?”

Connor hums, lowering a hand to Kevin’s thigh. “Do you want another line,” he asks; “or the truth?”

_The truth_ , Kevin means to say; but before he gets the chance, there is a sudden stab of pain that steals his breath and all his words.

“Oh, my,” says Connor. Reaching out, he plucks something from Kevin’s neck, dropping it into an empty glass. Kevin has just enough time to make out the familiar green flight of a tranquilizer dart before everything fades to black.

_Is he dead_ , someone asks.  _Oh, Jesus, if he’s dead, he’s gonna kill me_.

_If he’s dead, he can’t kill you_ , someone else replies.  _Find some comfort in that, at least._

_But he’s my best friend_. The first someone starts to cry, while the second someone tells him to  _shut the heck up, this is a bar not a funeral._   

Kevin comes to slowly, but perhaps not as slowly as he would have if there were not two people arguing right above him. “Hnng,” he groans, weakly scrubbing a hand over his face. “Arnold, what the heck was that?”

“Kevin!” Arnold drops to his knees in what sounds like a painful way, before pulling Kevin into a hug. “I’m sorry, buddy, that was my bad. It’s just, well, this  _girl_  walked on stage, and I got distracted ‘cause she’s, like,  _so_ hot, Kev, I gotta show you, later, and it kinda messed up my aim.”

“Kind of?” Connor, who does not join them on the floor, gives Arnold’s hair a sharp tug. “Try  _totally_  messed it up.” He peers down at Kevin; “The intended target was eighty feet to your left.”

Kevin’s eyes widen slightly, and Connor sighs; “Your little friend, here, told me everything when he thought you were dead, for some reason.” He crouches down to shake Kevin’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Kevin Price: ex-Mormon, twenty-eight-year-old virgin, and shit at  _Connect Four_.”

Kevin glares at Arnold, who immediately shies away.

“He also said you’re some sort of secret agent.” Connor reaches for Kevin’s other hand, helping him up from the floor. “Funny, I didn’t clock you as the James Bond type; - well, aside from all the  _being handsome_.”

“Please, shut up.” Blearily, Kevin sits himself back at the bar, reaching for what’s left of his drink. It is mostly melted ice, but he drinks it, anyway. His head is starting to hurt, and everything is still a little off-kilter.

“So, do you have a gun?” Connor asks, casually walking his fingers up Kevin’s thigh. “Is it big? Can I see it?”  

Arnold laughs; “Oh, it is,” he says. “ _Real_  big, isn’t it Kev?” He follows his words with an exaggerated wink, mouthing  _good luck_ , before wandering off towards the stage.

Connor hums; “I like him.”

“I don’t.” Kevin drops his head to the bar top. He thinks he might kill Arnold for this, once his wits are back about him.  

“Oh, please. I don’t even know you, but I know that’s a lie.” Connor moves his hand from Kevin’s thigh to the top of his head, carding his fingers through Kevin’s hair, lulling him close to sleep.  

Kevin snorts; “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re shit at  _Connect Four_.” Connor drops his hand as Kevin lifts his head; “and a virgin.”

“For now,” Kevin says, yawning. “But probably not for long.”

Connor rolls his eyes, hooking a finger in the knot of Kevin’s tie; “ _Someone’s_  presumptuous.”

“It’s not presumptuous if it’s true.” Kevin points out.

“No,” Connor agrees. He uses a hand on Kevin’s jaw to tilt his head back, leaning in for a slow, exploring kiss that tastes like cheap gin and strawberry vodka. Kevin whines once its over.

“Hey,” he complains, reaching out for Connor, who takes his hands and helps him off the barstool.

“Come on, 007,” he says, ignoring the two, exuberant thumbs-up Arnold gives him from over Kevin’s shoulder. “Let’s go see this really big gun of yours.”


	4. College & Universities - Pricingham

In college, their beds are further apart.

It is the first thing Kevin notices upon entering the dorm.

“Awe, _man_ ,” Arnold complains, tossing his backpack onto the bed closest to the window. “This kind of sucks, huh?”

Kevin ignores him in favor of standing in the center of the room, arms outstretched as he calculates the distance. The tips of his fingers fall short of each mattress; even when he leans to the side, he cannot reach.

“Boy,” he says, eventually, meeting Arnold’s gaze. “I’ll say.”

* * *

 

When he and Arnold would sit on their beds in Uganda, their knees would touch. 

_Always sleep in the same room as your companion, but not in the same bed_. Kevin used to think whoever wrote that rule, never served a mission in Uganda. Or, maybe they’d just never been in love. Because what started out as knees touching, turned into  _touching_ -touching and an eventual pleading for more.

They pushed their beds together. 

* * *

 

These beds are bolted to the floor. 

Kevin tries to pull one across the room, anyway, to Arnold’s great amusement. His laugh echoes off the cement block walls, permeating Kevin’s concentration. He drops his arms; kicks the leg of his bed just a little too hard. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, hopping on one foot. Arnold’s laugh only gets louder.

“It’s not a big deal, buddy.” He rustles Kevin’s hair, grinning when his hand gets slapped away. “We can always, like, meet in the middle, sometimes, yaknow?”

But sometimes isn’t good enough. Not for Kevin, who can never do anything in half-measures. Always, is better. So, their mattresses end up on the floor, between their beds, with blankets draped across the room in a makeshift tent.

“Is this stupid?” Kevin asks, sitting cross-legged and across from Arnold. The top of his head grazes one of the blankets. “This is stupid, huh?”

“Are you  _nuts_?” Arnold leans forward, poking Kevin’s nose. “This is  _awesome!_ I used to build blanket forts as a kid  _all the time_ , but it’s kinda lame doing it all by yourself. This is way better.” His hands lower to Kevin’s thighs and squeeze; “Like – way,  _way_  better.”

Kevin grins; “Oh yeah?”  It’s hot beneath their blankets, and the slightest bit humid. Arnold’s glasses are partially fogged and Kevin’s hair has started to fall. “Why’s that?”

Arnold opens his mouth to reply, but chooses to show him, instead. They end up tangled in each other and their blankets, clothes and shoes strewn across the floor. 

Kevin is kept quiet with a hand over his mouth; Arnold, by swallowing him down.

It is over much too soon.

“Remind me to thank the mission president for pairing us together,” Kevin says, breathless. He slides an arm around Arnold’s shoulders, ignoring the slick feel of sweat. “He really knew what he was doing.”

Arnold snorts, rolls over and rests his head on Kevin’s chest. It pushes his glasses askew. “ _Dear Mission President_ ,” he mocks; “ _Thanks for the sex_.”

“That makes it sound like you had sex with the MP.” Kevin yawns, closing his eyes. “Gross, pal.”

“That guy looks like your dad.” Arnold grins when Kevin cracks open an eye to glare at him; “Like,  _really_  looks like him.”

“Like I said: gross.” Kevin turns onto his side, facing Arnold. “Can we  _please_ sleep, now? You sucked the life outta me. Literally.”

Arnold laughs, right in Kevin’s face. “Yeah, of course.” He clears his throat; “Goodnight,  _best friend_.”

Kevin smiles, tiredly. Their knees are touching. “Goodnight, pal.”


	5. Coffee Shop - McPriceley

There is nothing glamorous about slinging coffee in the earliest hours of morning, when the world should still be asleep.

It is a thankless job. Kevin is underpaid and overworked, and there is too much expectation at this hour.  _Smile more, talk more, offer more_. That is his manager’s mantra; and if he has to hear it one more time, Kevin thinks he’ll lose what’s left of his mind.

This job was a rebellion, taken on a whim as a  _fuck you_  to his parents. It is not a career. He does not take it seriously. Clocks in, clocks out, and goes home.

He is often bored, drawing pictures onto cups with a sharpie. Castles and clouds and fire-breathing rabbits with cat-ears and insect-wings. Abominations, his co-worker calls them, but Kevin thinks they’re beautiful. They are all messed up and mixed up like he is. Sometimes he signs them, sometimes he doesn’t. One time he put his number on the edge of a cardboard sleeve, hoping he might make a friend. Nobody called, so he never did that again.

The shifts he works change with the wind, but Sunday mornings are always his constant. He throws an apron on over his church clothes, drinks his heart into a murmur, and waltzes into the sacrament with coffee on his breath. Another  _fuck you_ ; this time to the church who abhors him. Kevin thinks he ought to just stop going, but there is something satisfying in the disappointing looks of his ward as he bounces his knees and sweats from too much caffeine.  

No one at  _Uncommon Grounds_  believes he’s a Mormon. They think he’s too negative and too bitter; not happy enough.  _Mormons are the happiest people on the planet_ , they say;  _and you’re miserable_.

Kevin is miserable  _because_  he’s a Mormon.

He wishes it wasn’t true. He wishes he could still find love, hope, and gratitude in the Gospel, like his family continuously prays for. It would make his mother happy, and Kevin loves her more than anything. He’d probably chew glass if she asked, which is the  _only_  reason he entertains Elder McKinley and Elder Thomas when they catch him outside on his break.

He’s sitting on the sidewalk, hands wrapped around a skinny vanilla latte as they go on and on and  _on_ about God’s plan and the divine mission of Jesus Christ. Kevin’s eyes glazed over twenty minutes ago, but neither seems to notice. Elder Thomas, because he’s reading passionately from the Book, and Elder McKinley, because his eyes have been trained on Kevin’s lap for the entire conversation. It amuses him, but also makes him sad. Elder McKinley will probably end up just like Kevin: working in a coffee shop, jerking off to gay porn in the bathroom, while wishing he’d never been born. Well, wishing he’d never been born a _Mormon_. If he’d been born atheist, Kevin would probably be married by now.

“The bathroom’s right inside,” he says, suddenly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. Both Elder McKinley and Elder Thomas meet Kevin’s gaze, looking equally confused. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Kevin stands, motioning for McKinley to follow him. It takes him a few awkward seconds, but then McKinley seems to get it, trailing after Kevin and leaving his companion outside with the Book and Kevin’s latte.

“You can mark me down as an investigator, if you want,” Kevin murmurs, pulling McKinley towards him once they’re locked inside the bathroom.

They keep the light off, Kevin’s hands moving fluidly to McKinley’s jaw, tilting his head back roughly, before capturing McKinley’s lips in a biting, possessive kiss. He’s no expert at kissing, but Kevin likes to think he more than makes up for his lack of experience with a willingness to learn. Besides, McKinley doesn’t seem to have any complaints, moaning a chorus  _oh my gosh’s_  and  _yes, like that’s_  as Kevin’s hands roam over his chest, his stomach, and press against the front of his pants.  

Neither of them last very long. McKinley murmurs his gratitude into Kevin’s ear a second before he comes, Kevin biting against a fist as he quickly follows suit.  

“My name’s Kevin,” he says, once he’s caught his breath. “Price. You know, so you can mark me down in your planner, or wherever.”

“Okay,” McKinley says, flinching as Kevin turns on the light. “Thank you.”  He turns and fixes his hair, catching Kevin’s gaze in the mirror. He frowns; “What?”  

“You actually  _look_  like you broke the law of chastity,” Kevin tries very hard to keep the smile off his face; “You should probably repent for that, later.”

McKinley rolls his eyes. “If I was sorry about it, maybe,” he says, turning around to rest his back against the sink. “But you’re much too handsome for that.”

“I know.” Kevin beams. McKinley rolls his eyes, again.

“Well, this has certainly been enlightening, Kevin Price, but I really should get back to my companion.” McKinley hesitates, and for a second Kevin thinks he might get kissed, again. “I’ll need your number, though, so this investigation looks authentic.”

"Oh. Right." Kevin reaches into the pocket of his apron for a pen, scribbling his number on the palm of McKinley’s hand. “I don’t normally do stuff like this,” he says, feeling as though that’s important.

“I could tell.” McKinley grins, pinches Kevin’s cheek, then leaves him in the bathroom. Kevin stares at the door until his phone dings with a message, giving him reason to look away. It is from a number he does not recognize. Kevin smiles the second he sees it;

_ Neither do I. _


	6. Tattoo Parlor - McPriceley

Coming here was a mistake.

Kevin realizes this the second he steps into  _Convicted Ink_ , bottle of water in hand. There is rebellion, and then there is this: permanently embedding something into his skin, to defile the temple of God.

The idea came to him a few nights ago, after locking himself in a bathroom stall so he could drink  _Bombay Sapphire_  from a bottle he’d stuffed into the ankle of one of his socks. It had seemed revolutionary at the time - he’d written it down and everything - but now that he’s (mostly) sober, Kevin can acknowledge it for what it really was: the messy thoughts of a drunk person, angry at life and alone.    

Logically, he knows getting a tattoo won’t change that, but it  _will_  pull him away from his family and ruin him in the eyes of the church, marking some independence from them both. Kevin needs that. He has been living for others for much too long. It is time he lived for himself.

“First one?”

Kevin jumps; he hadn’t realized anyone had stepped up beside him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The boy beside him grins, bearing teeth and looking a little bit crazed. “Mine, too.” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper which he flattens out as best he can against his chest. He offers it to Kevin; “I drew it myself,” he says proudly. “Took me seventeen days.”

Kevin has no idea what it is, or what it’s supposed to be. Nor does he know why anyone would brag about such scratch taking more than an hour. He hands the paper back. “That’s pretty neat,” he lies, hands sliding deep into his pockets. “Um.”

Their conversation stalls. The other boy keeps his eyes on Kevin, though, which makes Kevin increasingly uncomfortable. He marches up to the counter and drums his fingers against its top.

“It’s a baobab tree,” the boy explains, stepping up beside Kevin again. “I served a mission in Africa. It was a disaster.”

“Apparently,” Kevin says, under his breath.

“I spent most of my time sitting under these things, wishing I was anywhere else.” He shoves his hand in front of Kevin’s face. “I’m Connor, by the way.”

Kevin bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep an even expression. Connor is kind of annoying. “Kevin,” he says, taking the offered hand for only a second.

“I caught malaria  _three times_ ,” Connor says, turning around to sit himself up on the counter. They are facing one another. “I also got bit by a meerkat.”  Holding up his arm, he points to a barely-there scar just beneath his wrist. “I think that’s when I gave up on the whole Jesus thing.”

Kevin snorts. He has no idea how a meerkat bite could turn someone’s opinion on God, but at least Connor has an excuse. Kevin only wishes he did; “I have to give up on the whole Jesus thing, too. If I want to be happy, anyway.”

Connor considers him for a moment, tapping a finger against his mouth, which is pressed into a very thin line. “You  _have_  to,” he echoes. “Meaning, you haven’t yet.”

“I don’t really have a reason to,” Kevin explains, growing annoyed. His appointment was at one-thirty, and it is already ten past two. “My companion just got married and has a baby on the way.”

“Oh.” Connor nods, like he understands the implication. Maybe he does. “Do you want one?”

Kevin frowns, splaying his hands over the glass top of the counter. His palms are sweaty. “Want  _what_?”

Connor slides off the counter, forcing himself between it and Kevin. They are very close. “A reason.”

Oh.  “Yeah,” Kevin says, nodding once. “Alright.”

Connor grabs a handful of Kevin’s shirt, pulling him even closer. Their noses touch and Connor smiles, a little nicer this time. Softer. “I promise I’ll give you a good one,” he says, and brings their mouths together.  


	7. Fake Dating - McPriceley

Kevin Price is a very good friend.

Connor tells him no less than twenty-three times during their commute to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. ****

It is the twenty-first of July and ninety-six degrees outside. Kevin’s hair has fallen, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. Fanning himself with a wedding invitation, he laments over the lack of relief. Were it any other Saturday, he’d be holed up in his apartment with his head in the freezer, wearing nothing but the socks on his feet.

“You owe me,” he says, tripping over the sidewalk. “ _Big_  time.”

Connor sighs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the end of his tie. “So, you keep reminding me.”

“When I don’t, you forget.” Kevin stops to admire his reflection in the window of  _Banana Republic_. Heat and humidity look good on him, even here in New York. “And I’m tired of getting ripped off.”

“There’s going to be food and an open bar,” Connor points out. “I’d hardly call that getting ripped off.”

Kevin rolls his eyes; “ _I_ would, considering I have to sit through an entire Catholic Mass first.”

“Well, at least the church is air-conditioned.” Grabbing Kevin’s sleeve, Connor pulls him away from the window.

People filter into the church; fancy clothes and fancy hats. If Kevin didn’t know any better, he’d think they were walking into the Kentucky Derby instead of a wedding for Connor’s childhood crush. It would probably be a lot more fun; at least there he could bet on the races and maybe win a few bucks. Here, the best he’ll get is a bag of Jordan Almonds, and a hangover he’ll nurse on the bus back to Ithaca.

“Give me your hand,” he says, reaching out towards Connor. Their palms are sweaty, and it feels a little gross once they squeeze them together. “For shock value,” Kevin adds. “That’s the whole point of this, right?”

Connor had cried on the phone when he’d begged Kevin to come.  _It’s just for one night_ , he’d said; Kevin could hardly understand him.  _Then you can go back to your perfect wonderful heterosexual life, without me._  Kevin had rolled his eyes so hard, he’d given himself a headache; but then he agreed because Kevin Price is a very good friend and Connor seemed to need one.  

The wedding programs are navy, gold, and green. “Utah Jazz colors?” Kevin asks, incredulous. “ _Seriously_?”    

“We’re in New York, Kevin,” Connor says, exasperated. He slides down one of the pews, towards the aisle. “No one here cares about the Utah Jazz.”

“Good, ‘cause they’re  _terrible_. Imagine dedicating your entire wedding to a team like that?” Kevin pulls a face, flipping through his program. “No, thank you.”

“Like BYU is any better.” Connor rolls his eyes, tracing along the letters of Steve’s name with a finger. Kevin is willing to bet he did something similar in middle school; writing  _Steve Blade_  on the inside of his notebook with an eraser, so no one would ever find out.

“They are, actually,” Kevin says, quite seriously. He smacks the program out of Connor’s hand; “Still doesn’t mean I’d dedicate my wedding to a sports team, though.”

“Okay, Rude.” Connor picks the program up from the ground, sliding it into the Bible beside him. “I promised my very first girlfriend we’d get married here,” he says, changing the subject. “And my second, and my third.”

“Three girlfriends, huh?” Kevin snorts; “You've got me beat.”

“Oh?” Connor sounds genuinely surprised. “How many have you had?”

The corner of Kevin’s mouth betrays his amusement; “Zero.”

Connor does not ask why. Instead, he turns his attention to the front of the church, where Steve is standing with no less than eleven groomsmen. He meets Connor’s gaze and waves. It looks as awkward as Kevin feels.

“He kissed me,” Connor says, without even meaning to. “On my seventeenth birthday, on a dare. When I kissed him back, he called me a fag.”

Kevin goes very still, before choosing his words. “That’s not okay,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Of course, I know that.” Connor picks at the hem of his sleeve. “Steve grew up like we did,” he explains, nodding towards the pulpit. “He didn’t know any better.”

“Does he  _now_?” Kevin thinks he understands why they’re doing this, together.  

“I have no idea,” Connor admits. “But I want him to think I’m happy, either way.”

Kevin doesn’t like how Connor says  **think** , because the implication hurts, deep in his chest. So, he reaches for Connor's  hand, again, leaning in very close. He smiles against Connor’s ear;  ****“I don't want him to think," he says, pressing a kiss there. "I want him to know.”


	8. Fusion - Kevin Price/Whizzer Brown

Kevin Price is on his third gin and tonic when a man sidles up beside him.

“God,” the man complains. “Why is everyone here so  _boring_?” He leans forward, over the bar with arms outstretched before resting his forehead upon them.  No one seems to pay him any mind, save for the bartender who acknowledges him with a roll of her eyes.

Kevin leans away, stirring his drink with a cocktail straw. There’s no sense in being judgmental but finds he cannot disagree; the people in this bar  _are_  boring. They are older, secluded into corners with their  _associates_ , he’s sure. No one is dancing, no one is even smiling. Kevin is, but he thinks that’s more from the gin than his mood.

“Have you asked yourself that question,” he muses, bringing the glass to his lips. “Because  _technically_  you’re part of that everyone.”

The man lifts his head and turns it, slowly sitting upright. His hands slide back across the bar; at some point, one of them ends up on Kevin’s thigh. “I stand corrected,” the man says, tipping his head to the side. “Not everyone, after all.”

The first time Kevin heard the word doppelganger, he was sitting on an airplane somewhere over the Atlantic.  _Have you ever seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers,_  Arnold had asked; and no, Kevin hadn’t. Saying so was a mistake because it subjected him to an hour-long discussion about people being replaced by alien duplicates.  _Pod people, Kevin! With no emotions! Crazy, right?_

This situation, right now, reminds Kevin of that conversation; not because the man beside him is an  _alien_  duplicate, but he  _is_  a duplicate - or, at least very close to one. His hair is longer, softer, not nearly as dark; and Kevin thinks the man might be a little bit taller. He’s broader in the shoulders, certainly, and narrower in the waist (not that Kevin allows his gaze to drop that far), but otherwise Kevin thinks it would be hard for anyone to tell them apart. Even him, if he was more than a few drinks in.

“You look like you’re about to go to church.” The man’s smile fades as he lowers his gaze; “Who even  _wears_  khakis, anymore?”

The man almost looks disgusted, which makes Kevin feel a little embarrassed. He thought he looked good. The whole entire outfit he’s wearing is from the Gap, and it wasn’t even on sale, meaning  _some_  people must still wear this stuff. That logic makes him feel a bit better.

“Well,” Kevin says, squaring his shoulders. “Looks like I do.”

“And who  _are_  you?” The man seems genuinely curious, but he also looks hungry which makes Kevin nervous.

“Oh, um.” He knows he should lie. He should make up some name or use Arnold’s or Connor’s or even Jack’s; but the man’s hand starts stroking Kevin’s thigh, delving further inward and stripping him of any sense. “Kevin.” He offers the man a hand, plastering on a smile; “It’s so nice to meet you.”

The man snorts, leaning forward as his fingers crawl up Kevin’s thigh and over his hip, hooking themselves around Kevin’s belt. “Whizzer,” he says, tugging Kevin forward. He ignores the offered hand; “And you have no idea how nice.”

Their foreheads touch and Kevin can feel Whizzer’s breath against his face. It’s warm, but Kevin shivers; “That’s not your real name.”

Whizzer snorts, tugging Kevin off the barstool. “Whatever you say,” he says. “Which won’t be much, in a second.”

Kevin finds out what he means by that a few minutes later when he’s pushed up against the bathroom door. Whizzer is on his knees, hands splayed over Kevin’s bare thighs as he expertly bobs his head. It is almost  _too_  much, watching someone so visually similar pleasuring him like this, but it is also surprisingly  _hot_. He wonders if this is what he looked like to McKinley when he dropped to his knees out of boredom. 

_This is all backwards, Elder Price_ , McKinley had said, head tipped back against the wall. He came before he’d even finished speaking.  _You’re supposed to take me out, first._

If he had looked like this, Kevin can understand why McKinley did not last very long. He is already teetering on the edge of orgasm, himself, and it’s only been a few seconds.

“Hey,” Kevin’s hand combs through Whizzer’s hair, before closing around a generous handful. Whizzer grunts, looking disappointed as Kevin pulls up instead of pushes down. “Maybe we should go to dinner first?”

“Jesus, kid.” Whizzer, sighs, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. He stares longingly between Kevin’s thighs; “It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

Kevin shifts his weight, releases Whizzer’s hair and reluctantly nods; “Alright. After, then.”

“Sure.” Whizzer wraps a hand around Kevin, stroking him slowly while gazing up through the hair that has fallen into his face. “Nowhere cheap,” he adds, pointedly. “I have standards.”

A little hard to believe, considering Whizzer is on his knees in a filthy bathroom for someone he doesn’t even know, but Kevin doesn’t argue; he has a feeling there wouldn’t be much of a point.

“Sure,” Kevin returns his hand to Whizzer’s hair, giving it a tug, then lets Whizzer have what he wants.  

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr: elderxprice
> 
> thank you to everyone who sent in a prompt; it was fun writing these for you!


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